


Green For Go

by helens78



Category: due South
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, Headspace, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, Vehicular Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow it takes this: being in the Riv, doing what Vecchio tells him to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green For Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragovianKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragovianKnight/gifts).



It takes this, somehow. It takes this front seat, the armrest pushed up between the seats so Kowalski has room to lean over. It takes the thin rim of the wheel and the sharply angled dash and the faux wood veneer on the trim.

All this, because otherwise he just--he _can't_. He can't find the right spot in his brain, can't kick it into gear, can't shake loose the feeling that this is _his_ life, _his_ city, that Vecchio has no goddamned right to be here, to be back.

In the Riv, though, he knows his place.

* * *

Kowalski started eyeing the car at pretty much the same time as he started eyeing Vecchio himself. Vecchio didn't miss either--the Riv, because of course Kowalski was going to have an eye on the Riv, he was a car guy, he could appreciate the Riv (even if he had driven one into Lake Michigan, but that he could blame on Fraser). Himself, because--

Okay, that had pretty much come out of nowhere.

Thing was, after Fraser, after Vegas, after--hell, after Stella, although no way in fuck was Vecchio going to say something like that to Kowalski, he didn't have a death wish--Vecchio was getting pretty used to how it looked when somebody really wanted to go down low. Fraser called it submission, in Vegas they called it getting taken down hard, and Stella called it nothing whatsoever, just expected Vecchio to know what to do and how to do it and for how long. It was easy at first, coasting along on his instincts from Vegas, but as soon as he realized that it _was_ coasting on the remnants of Langoustine, he backed out. Langoustine was over. Stella was over. Fraser was--complicated.

Being here in the front seat of the Riv with Kowalski isn't complicated at all. Vecchio slips his fingers into Kowalski's hair, tugs hard, and says, "Meter's running, Stanley. I don't have all night."

* * *

Kowalski uses both hands to get Vecchio's pants open, reaches in and draws out Vecchio's cock. The first few times, Vecchio was still soft when Kowalski grabbed for him, but nowadays he's hard before Kowalski even gets into his pants--maybe even hard when he gets into the car. Kowalski sure as hell is.

He bends down and takes Vecchio's cock in his mouth, and Vecchio exhales softly. Kowalski can smell leather polish from the detailing job on the seats; everything he sees has a little bit of a greenish cast to it, thanks to the green leather seats and dash.

 _Green for go_ , Kowalski thinks, and he starts up for real. He can be good at this. In the Riv, he can be anything Vecchio tells him to be.

* * *

Kowalski's mouth. Jesus. Vecchio lets his head fall back against the headrest, breathing hard already. It's not going to take long tonight. Sometimes when Kowalski comes after him, he does it like he's got something to prove, and tonight's one of those times.

Why tonight, he doesn't know. He's not going to interrupt Kowalski to ask, either. He just holds onto Kowalski's hair, rocks up into his mouth, and thanks his lucky stars that he figured out how to make Kowalski fall in line.

If the price for getting Kowalski down where he needs to go is getting blown in the front seat of the Riv, well. Vecchio can live with that.

* * *

Vecchio's grip shifts from Kowalski's hair to the back of his neck, and yeah, _yeah_ \--this is just right, just what Kowalski needed. He's down there, sunk down deep, in that place where he feels like he could do this forever. He's his hands, and his mouth, and that sweet desperate ache between his legs, and he's _Vecchio's_ , he's a Champion, he--

\--he belongs to somebody.

He closes his eyes a little tighter, sucks a little harder. Vecchio's hand is heavy on Kowalski's neck. Everything's good here, the feel and creak of the leather, the smell from Vecchio's cologne mingling with the Riv's leather polish. Everything adds up. Everything's right.

Vecchio warns him first; his nails dig into the back of Kowalski's neck, and then the pressure's light, no force holding him here. Kowalski stays anyway, tongue rough on the underside of Vecchio's cock, and he swallows and swallows, letting Vecchio's taste fill him up, too.

* * *

Kowalski's eyes are bright when Vecchio finally gets him back up. He keeps licking his lips, keeps watching Vecchio as Vecchio puts his clothes back together. Vecchio's pretty sure he could just ruffle Kowalski's hair and drive him home, wouldn't need to get him off, but he's nicer than that, more selfish than that.

He wants to see Kowalski come.

"Sideways," Vecchio says, and it's awkward, it's a big front seat but it's still a tight squeeze. Kowalski turns, though, one leg up underneath him on the seat, the other still down in the footwell, and he licks his lips, looking hopeful.

"Yeah. C'mon. You know what I want."

Kowalski nods; he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, and gets his cock out, holding it nice and easy, no pressure in that grip, no motion. When Vecchio nods, Kowalski gets started, ball chain flashing on his wrist as he moves his hand.

Vecchio has to spend a lot more time detailing the interior of his car these days; it always smells like leather polish in here now, and he wonders if the smell gets Kowalski off. Maybe it does. Maybe he could make Kowalski give him a nice shoeshine, see what Kowalski did once his face was up against clean shiny leather. But that would have to happen out of the car, and out of the car isn't on the menu just yet. It's okay. Vecchio can wait, and if it doesn't happen, Vecchio can settle for Kowalski like this, all hot and bothered and eager to please, cooped up in the Riv, his hand a blur on his cock as he pushes himself closer and closer to the edge.

"You ready?" Vecchio asks.

Kowalski grunts but nods. "Yeah, _yeah_ \--please--"

"Go for it," Vecchio says, light as a feather, real light, but Kowalski responds like Vecchio was grabbing at his hair and yelling _come on, motherfucker, come all over my front seat_. He shoots for distance this time, streaks the leather with it, and when he's done, he doesn't even have to be told to slide down into the footwell and bend his head to the leather, licking every last drop of his jizz off the seats.

* * *

When the Riv's seats are spit-slick and clean as Kowalski can get them, he finally rests his head on the leather. He's scrunched up into a position that's not going to be comfortable much longer--a minute or two, tops--but he can't bring himself to sit up yet. Sitting up means _coming_ up, and he's not ready, can't face the rest of the night without this feeling. Without _this_.

Vecchio reaches over and strokes his hair, and Kowalski groans, pushing himself a little closer to Vecchio. If Vecchio moves over, Kowalski can get himself onto the front seat, at least, out of the footwell, flipped over on his back.

Vecchio moves, and Kowalski gets himself partly unscrunched, puts his head in Vecchio's lap. His legs are still tangled up with each other, still have no place to go, but that's okay. Vecchio sweeps the hair off Kowalski's forehead--the heat and sweat beat out the gel, this time. Kowalski closes his eyes, lets himself feel this. This, right here, in the sea of green and the comfort of Vecchio's control.

"Hey," Vecchio murmurs. Kowalski looks up at him. He's got a great view straight up Vecchio's nose from here, and if he were all the way up, he'd probably make a smart-ass remark about that.

Instead, he just waits for Vecchio to say whatever it was he was going to say.

* * *

Vecchio blurts it out without thinking. "Come home with me."

Kowalski keeps on looking at him, says nothing. Vecchio nods a little, mostly to himself. Fair enough. They can pretend he didn't even ask--

"No," Kowalski says, and he slowly eases his way out of Vecchio's lap and sits up, tucking his cock away, zipping up, buckling his belt. Vecchio nods at that, too, to Kowalski this time, even if Kowalski's not looking at him. He starts the engine again.

"No, I meant--" Kowalski reaches out and puts a hand on Vecchio's wrist; Vecchio looks over at him. Kowalski flinches and looks away, looks out the passenger window, then turns back. He looks a little more settled than he usually does, a little more sure of himself. Not so zoned out.

"You meant what?" Vecchio asks.

"I meant, no, not your place." Kowalski takes a deep breath. "Come back to mine."

Vecchio isn't stupid enough to ask something like _are you sure_? He just nods and puts the car in drive.

 _-end-_


End file.
